Peril at the Pier
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: While pursuing a man of interest, both Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson find themselves at the mercy of the suspect's gun and desires for revenge! Both men must fight for their lives, and well as each other's safety. While one man lays injured, shot, upon the docks; the other drowns...


The man that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson had been in pursuit of that afternoon had ducked down behind the impressive sized cargo containers that strung along the edge of the pier and port. Pistols drawn, the duo walked slowly down the wooden planks, they crouched while keeping an eye for any sign of movement from their man. Their heavy soled boots against the dry wood of the dock echoed loudly.

A shot suddenly rang out from unknown locale from the numerous wooden crates. The sound of clinking metal against the pier drew Watson's attention to his left. His eyes focused on the form of his friend crumpling to the ground to his knees, his hand pressed against his right side. A low moan of pain escaped his lips.

"Holmes? Holmes, what's wrong?" His revolver still aimed, his free hand grabbing onto Holmes' shoulder.

The blood spreading outward from beneath the detectives hand indicated that Sherlock Holmes had been shot.

"I need to look at your wound, move your hand."

As Watson knelt to examine his injured comrade, a sudden blow to the back of his hand rendered him instantly unconscious.

Holmes leaned heavily on his knees, the hand that had held his pistol was now supporting his body upward. The pistol lay dormant to his side. He looked up to see the face of the very man he had intended to apprehend, now standing above him, his pistol aimed directly between the detectives glassy eyes. He fearlessly waited for the trigger to be pulled, for the sound of the shot that would put an end to his life.

In its place, he heard the click of the pistol being unarmed and subsequently placed back in its holster.

"One shot is all I need to waste on you."

The gruff, arrogant voice of the shooter mocked Holmes ears, even as they began to ring. His weak body heaved itself against his own will, face down onto the dock. He struggled to lift his head and focus his eyes on his assailant. Through his clouding vision he saw the shooter grab Watson by the back of his coat and heave further down the pier and over to the edge. A large cargo vessel remained unguarded at the dock. Holmes breathed out one last pitiful call toward his colleague before passing out.

"Now doctor," The shooter spoke in rough angry tone beneath his breath. "It's your turn."

Dr. Watson was beginning to regain consciousness, his mind slowly registered that the voice that was taunting him was of an enemy. His body remained motionless, refusing to respond. He felt heavy in his chest and arms, it was then he understood that he had been bound by a heavy rope or chain. Feeling the cold material pressing harshly into his torso he deduced that it was an indeed a chain, the very chain of the nearby vessel's anchor that held him at bay. A large padlock clasped the chains in place, resting against his constricted chest.

"You brought this on yourself. If you and that pompous detective had just my life well enough alone, I'd still have my family!"

Watson had to force the words from his traumatized voice. "I swear to you, we knew nothing, absolutely _nothing_ of the perils that had been laid for your family. It's not our fault!"

"You're the second person to tell me that this morning. And frankly, I grew tried of it the first time around. But you're wrong, it is you fault! It's my fault as well. Someone has to pay for this outrage and I'm starting with the two of you and ending it with me!"

With one strong kick, the shooter pushed Watson over the edge of the pier and into cold, murky water. Watson instinctively held his breath and his body hit the water, even as the chill of the icy water stung into his flesh like a thousand needles.

The anchor pulled him down quickly to the bottom of the bay. When the full weight had struck the silt, cloud of the loose sand clouded his vision further. The chain shuddered from the sudden stop. His lungs already burning, starving for the much needed oxygen, Watson began to struggle fitfully and fruitlessly against his binds. Escape seemed impossible but he refused to give in so easily to the whims of a madman with a vendetta.

The shooter watched from above as the ripples on the water, the cascade of bubbles that came flying upward from the beneath the surface started to calm. The anchor's chain suddenly fell into silence. The only sound now was the distant voices calling out from further up the pier. The shooter took a deep breath and held it as he felt the barrel of his own gun pressed against his temple. He squeezed the trigger…

Just as Watson felt he needn't fight for life any longer, that he should let free his final breath and allow the darkness of impending death take him, he felt two hands grab hold of the chains that had seemingly sealed his fate. Focusing hard through the murkiness of his watery tomb and pushing aside his own panic, he saw someone had swum down to him and was attempting to free him from his binds.

The rescuers hands had found the padlock and were frantically trying to pick away it, freeing the chains from around its captive. Despite the cloud of debris that encompassed the struggle for life, a glint from the flawless metal shone from the pick, like a glimmer of hope in a dark cave.

At the sight of the lock-pick Watson immediately knew the identity of his rescuer: Sherlock Holmes!

A red cloud of water began to encircle the heads of the two men. Dr. Watson knew that this red substance could only be blood. Sherlock's blood. The blood from the very gunshot wound that should've, not only killed him, but kept him from even attempting the very rescue of which he was now performing.

The murky water made picking the lock a laborious task. The detective's hands had difficulty grasping the pick, while the chill of the freezing water made his hands numb, even more so than the blood loss had done before.

With one final, forceful turn of the pick, the lock opened and the chains went lax as they slipped free from the lock's handle. His task completed at last, the exhausted detective let out his breath and lost consciousness. He began to slowly to sink aimlessly, helplessly toward the bottom. His limp body brushed against the soft, sandy bottom stirred up a second cloud of debris.

Adrenaline now coursing through his veins, Dr. Watson shrugged away the chains, freeing his arms from behind himself. He grasped down at Holmes' lifeless arm; he pulled his colleague up toward himself gripping the injured man beneath his arms with his own. Watson kicked frantically for the surface, his 'bad' leg ached at his profusely. The doctor was desperate to take in the breath that he so desired, desperate to get his friend out of the water and onto the relative safety of the dock, desperate the save the life of the man of whom had just saved his.

Watson's head broke through the calm surface of the water. The sounds of his gasping for breath drew the attention of several bystanders who had both heard the initial gunshot, as well as the second; and had seen a body fall into the water. Several dock workers had called for the authorities, while two men had marched up and down the pier curiously seeking the source of the interest. Upon seeing the doctor suddenly break through the water with his unconscious friend under arm, they quickly threw Watson a rope and helped pull both himself and Sherlock Holmes out of the water and back onto the pier.

The strong arms of the dock workers pulled Holmes out of the water effortlessly; one man laid him down while the other turned his attention to aiding Watson as he was too pulled onto the dock by another pair of strong arms. The kind man had insisted that Watson sit down and try to relax, but Watson pushed him aside and focused his attention to Holmes.

The seemingly invincible detective lay motionless on the dock, his clothes soaking from the water and stained red from his blood. There was no sign of life, his chest did not appear to be rising or falling, not a breath entered his lungs.

Watson put his hands on either side of Holmes head and began to pat at his face to invoke a response.

His eye caught the form of a humanoid shape, trucked under a brown canvas at the end of the pier where he now sat with Holmes. A small pool of blood was leaking out near the edge of the tarp. Inside he knew it was the shooter, and though he loathed the prospect of death, he was glad the madman was dead.

With no response given from Holmes, Watson began to call his friends name. A familiar voice might be enough to rouse his consciousness enough to awaken and resume breathing.

"Holmes? Wake up! I need you to wake up!"

Nothing, not any sign of life.

Watson placed his ear his friend's chest, but failed to hear a sound. Holmes' heart had stopped beating.

"No, you're not getting out of this _that_ easy…"

The devoted doctor kneeled beside the detective; he laced his fingers together as he began compressing Holmes' chest. Watson's eyes watched Holmes' face, hoping to see some signs of life return to his friend while he mentally counted each time he compressed downward.

"_Twenty-nine… Thirty_…"

No response.

Feeling helpless and desperate, Watson laid a fierce blow to Holmes' heart with his fist before repeating the process of chest compressions.

"Damn it, no! _Not _like this. You will _not _die like this! Not today…"

The dock workers who had witnessed the entire series of unfortunate events stood back, in respectful silence. Almost in awe of the fight Watson was putting up for the sake of his friend's life. A constable had joined the crowd; upon seeing the display of attempted resuscitation laid out before him, he too was at a loss of words or how he should react, if at all.

Inside, Watson felt pathetic and useless as a doctor. Holmes had been shot and yet he had managed to find the strength to dive into the horribly dark, deep and cold water in order save Watson from drowning. How could he, as both a doctor and a military man, fail to save one man's life? Mentally he still counted the compressions.

"_Twenty-two… Twenty-three_…"

A sudden gasp for air, followed by a severe cough caught Watson by surprise. From beneath his tired hands, the doctor felt wonderful thumping against his palms. The heart of his friend started beating once more as the warmth of the very welcome air, filled his cold lungs.

"Holmes…" Watson turned the detective to his side as he coughed up the remaining water that had entered his lungs. "Holmes? Look at me: Look at me ol' boy…"

Through gasps for breath, Holmes managed to utter out a single word: "Watson…"

"Thank God… I thought… I thought I lost-"

A pool of red blossoming along the detective's shirt stopped Watson mid-sentence. Once Holmes' heart resumed beating, the gunshot wound to his lower abdomen had also resumed bleeding. With the shock of seeing his friend return to land of the living wearing off, Watson found himself in full doctor mode. He turned Holmes over onto his back and unfastened the blood soak fabric of his vest and shirt to finally examine the wound.

The shot had been at a distance with a small caliber round; the damage was minimal but still severe enough to cause alarm. There was no exit wound on Holmes' back to be found, the bullet was still inside his abdomen. Watson turned his attention to the crowd of onlookers still behind him. He spied the constable in the crowd and addressed him with the tone one would expect from a respectable military man.

"I need a carriage, now!"

"Right away, sir! As the constable turned to find the requested carriage, he handed the doctor a clean white handkerchief from his own pocket.

Watson graciously accepted the offering and used it to pack the wound in Holmes' side. Within moments the white was forever stained a sickening crimson hue. If he could just keep Holmes from bleeding to death or succumbing to hypothermia from the cold water, it would be a matter of minor surgery to retrieve the projectile and close the wound.

"Hang in there ol' friend, help is coming."

Sherlock Holmes smiled a little, though his eyes remained closed. "Help is already here Watson."

"You'll be at the hospital shortly."

"No. No hospital."

"Holmes, you need medical attention. You need a doctor's care."

"I _already have _a doctor's care."

"Don't be daft Holmes. I cannot take you on as my patient."

"Why not?" Holmes winced at the pain in his side. "What is it about me in particular that prohibits your from performing your medical services?"

"For one, you need surgery. I cannot perform this surgery myself; I've been out of practice too long. And you're my friend. If something went wrong-"

"I have every confidence in you, my dear Watson. And your 'dormant' skills."

"No Holmes. You must-"

"No. I will not go. I have the right to refuse any, and all medical treatment."

"Holmes, if the bullet is not removed soon, you'll die from blood loss and shock. Not to mention your 'dip' into this filthy water will no doubt cause the wound to become septic, you'll die of infection in less than three days."

"Not if I have a proper doctor to care for my wound. You're a proper doctor, are you not?"

"I am. But-"

"What was the 'oath' you and your fellow doctor's took?"

Watson just stared at Holmes, a look of defeat in his eyes. It was common occurrence for Holmes to win their ethical debates.

"You're really not going to allow any other doctor to tend to your wound. Are you?"

"No."

"Very well. It seems I have no choice. And fair warning: Your recovery will be far from pleasant."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Watson chuckled a little. "Right. Shall we then?"

Using as much as strength as his leg would allow, Watson helped Holmes up to his feet, making sure one hand, if not both kept constant pressure on the debilitating wound. The bleeding had slowed down considerably but it may start up once more from the physical exertion of walking down to the carriage.

The attending constable was in return to the scene when he met Dr. Watson helping Sherlock Holmes down the pier. Unsure of what to say, unsure of what even to do, he offered his assistance in carrying Holmes to the awaiting carriage. Watson of course, did not object.

Together, the doctor and the constable lifted the wounded detective up and into the carriage where he sat with his head leaning back against the cushion of the seat. Dr. Watson thanked the constable for his services as he too climbed into the carriage and sat next to Holmes. The driving was given his directions and whipped up his horses.

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet and uneventful. The orange sun had begun to set, basking the streets in a glow of a warm atmosphere. Holmes drifted in and out of consciousness, while Watson successfully kept pressure on the wound. He checked Holmes' pulse as the carriage came to a halt along Baker Street.

Once back home, the two men limped together into the safety of their flat. Holmes was conscious enough to carry some of his own weight while Watson carried the rest.

After laying Holmes down on the sofa of the sitting room, the good doctor promptly lit up fire that quickly filled the room with appreciated warmth. Its glow was comforting, even though its light would play a part in causing Holmes great pain. The pain of course, was necessary in order to remove the bullet and to save his life.

As reluctant as Watson felt for setting himself up to perform minor surgery on his dear friend without the aid of a medical staff or even in a hospital, he was glad to be home. And he was glad that Sherlock Holmes was still there with him.

"Well doctor. Shall we begin?"

Watson had changed out of his wet attire and brought his medical bag into the sitting room. Before he even opened the bag, he handed Holmes a freshly opened bottle of the finest whiskey, which Watson himself had been saving for a special occasion.

"You may need this." A smug smile couldn't help but crease his lips.

"Doctor's orders, I suppose?"

Holmes downed a shot, then braced himself for the horrible pain to which was about to endure. As he laid flat on his back, the bottle still in his hand, he noticed the label of the whiskey and was surprised to see such a fine quality in his possession. Knowing Watson, he knew that the whiskey he held was of a special interest to his friend.

"We're both alive. I suppose that's worth celebrating."

Watson paused while setting up his equipment from his bag and glanced at Holmes. Despite all the time they spent together, Watson was still impressed with Holmes' ability to deduce his every action and motive. He took the bottle from Holmes' outstretched hand.

"I suppose so. But let's not make this a '_common occurrence', shall we?" _

"_Agreed."_

_Pouring the whiskey over the wound, Watson then pulled out a pair of forceps and small clamp from his medical bag. Holmes grew tense at the sight of the steel instruments being displayed before him: two small basins; one filled with alcohol while the other remained empty, a pair of forceps, tweezers, a clamp, several gauze bandages, a needle and with some silk thread._

"_It's been sometime since I've last needed to use these particular devices." He held up the forceps and clamp._

"_What an honor it is for me then." He did his best to hide his nervousness, but there was no denying it._

_After placing the instruments on a clean cloth that was laid down on the sofa, Watson produced a small vial of medication and a syringe from the bottom of the medical bag._

"_Morphine: It should do well enough to dull the pain as I work."_

"_Watson."_

"_Yes Holmes?"_

"_I love you." He grinned sheepishly. It was unusual for Watson to willingly give Holmes any potent medications, especially something as devious as Morphine._

"_Be quiet now, I must concentrate."_

_Sherlock Holmes did not even feel the prick of the needle as the painkiller was administered into his right bicep. Within a few seconds he felt completely relaxed, both physically and mentally. A mild delirium set in from the combination of the initial blood-loss and now the medication. _

_Dr. Watson on the other hand, was very tense. His hands steady, with his eyes fixed on the painful injury that plagued his friend._

"_Watson…"_

_The good doctor had already proceeded to debris the wound of its projectile, his eyes intensely focused at the task at hand. _

"_Yes Holmes?"_

"_When you were- Underwater… Were you afraid?"_

_There was a small metallic clank that echoed over the room louder than the crackling fire, as the bloodied bullet was dropped into the empty basin on the floor._

"_Yes Holmes. I was afraid."_

_With the bullet removed, Watson proceeded to suture the internally severed blood vessels, before stitching the external wound closed once more. Holmes seemed completely oblivious to the actions being performs on his own person._

"_Watson. Were you afraid of dying?"_

_Tying up the end of the thread, Watson snipped it off the remaining length. The white gauze pads were packed over the flesh, while being secured in place by a gauze wrap that covered his entire lower torso._

"_Yes Holmes. I was afraid I was going to die. Why do you ask?"_

"_Just curious."_

_Dr. Watson finished his procedure and sat with a heavy sigh on the end of the sofa next to Holmes. He was very tired yet he could not bring himself to close his eyes and rest._

"_Now Holmes, you need to rest in order to begin to heal properly. Do you understand?"_

_Sherlock Holmes remained silent. He had fallen into a peaceful slumber, living in a state of ignorant bliss to the world around him. Dr. Watson could only smirk. He laid his head back against the soft sofa cushion and closed his eyes; the warmth of the fire seemed to soothe his very soul._

"_Well done. We'll talk more in the morning."_

_-The End_

_*C.P.R. dates back to 1740. The modern technique used today, was first developed and accepted by the medical community in 1960, by Dr. Peter Sofar._


End file.
